


Mission: 2012

by venusinthenight



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Crack, Gen, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-16 15:13:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10573914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venusinthenight/pseuds/venusinthenight
Summary: “My name is Jeremy Clarkson. I went to bed in 2012 and woke up in 1982. I can think of only one person -- or being -- responsible for this, and I’m going to find out why and how I ended up here, and how I can get back to the twenty-first century.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally begun during a series of challenges at the Top Gear Slash comm on LJ, where a week was devoted to each of the presenters. This was for Jeremy Clarkson week. The prompt was, "Jeremy wakes up in the wrong... (bed? year? universe?, pants? who knows?)".
> 
> I did expand on the concept a little bit after the challenge, as well as revised what I'd originally written, but I never finished. I have chosen to post it here anyway.

The first sign that Something Wasn’t Right was the lack of iPhone on the bedside table. Instead, Jeremy found a tan rotary phone like his parents had in the Seventies, along with a black, basic digital alarm clock -- one without a CD or cassette player.

The next clue was the bedroom’s decor. The usual pink walls of his bedroom were replaced with basic white. _Could be worse,_ he thought. The chests-of-drawers were more traditional with fake antique gold handles instead of the more modern black pulls; the drawers themselves were made out of mahogany as opposed to that faux pine or whatever that was. The floor was as it always was, at least.

Jeremy went through the wardrobe cupboard to see what he could find to wear. He looked at some of the shirts and wondered how the hell he’d be able to fit into any of them now and why he’d wear them. Most of them looked to be two sizes too small. His choices in trousers were not much better. For starters, no jeans. _Who doesn’t own a pair of jeans? Is this the wardrobe of a pensioner?_ At least all the trousers had flat fronts, and at least he wasn’t raiding the wardrobe of one of those New Wave types. Or a fan of The Cure. Or Boy George. He found a pair of tan trousers that didn’t look too offensive, along with a navy blue shirt that, thankfully, buttoned up over his belly, put those on, then found a pair of black dress shoes that he hoped didn’t do his hip or back in, and exited his bedroom.

More things that screamed that this wasn’t 2012 caught Jeremy’s attention as he headed toward the sitting room-stroke-dining room-stroke-kitchen: the beige kitchen appliances, the lack of any flat-screen televisions or gaming consoles. There was a computer on a desk, but it was decidedly not modern, which made Jeremy conclude there was likely no Internet, either. He opened the door to go outside and was simultaneously horrified and relieved to see a copy of that day’s Telegraph outside, because he now knew what he had already determined: he wasn’t in 2012 anymore.

As it turned out, it was his birthday. His twenty-second birthday. The 11th of April, 1982.

“Fuck!”

Jeremy went back inside and sat down at the kitchen table, fingers rubbing against his forehead, wondering whom he could talk to, trying to remember where everyone he knew in 2012 were in 1982. Immediately he worked out that finding Richard Hammond would be useless, given that not only was he still living in Birmingham at the time, he was also just twelve years old. Almost every intern at Top Gear weren’t born yet. James May was probably at University or preparing to start there; either way, he was living in “t’ north”. Jeremy didn’t remember what Andy was doing in 1982. Or Francie. Or Philippa. Or even, god forbid, his first wife, Alex.

He thought about it some more. There was only one person -- or being, rather -- that could be responsible for this. Jeremy knew where to find him, too. All he had to do was find a car and start driving south. At least he had a sense of direction, in light of the fact no one had invented sat-nav yet. _James May would not do well if he woke up in a different time,_ Jeremy thought. _Unless he woke up in the 1950s, obviously. Or during the War._

He searched the flat for a set of car keys, hoping that the usual occupant was a human being and not the Eighties version of an ecomentalist. Fortunately, he found a set in a drawer with a telephone directory and a London A-Z. Then he went outside to search for a match. The closest car to the flat was, much to Jeremy’s dismay, an Austin Princess. At least it was in British Racing Green with a black vinyl roof and not beige with a brown one. It was unlocked, and -- even more unfortunate -- the key worked when he put it in the ignition and turned it.

* * *

As Jeremy pulled up to the road that would, normally, take him to the gates to Dunsfold, he suddenly realized something else. In 1982, hardly anyone knew about what was happening at the aerodrome; in fact, no one would find out what was going on there for another ten years or so. The area surrounding what, in modern times, would house the test track and studio, was overgrown. Jeremy found a place to pull over and wondered how the hell he’d be able to get on to the grounds. Then he remembered that if you approached it from the opposite end, via Dunsfold Road, there was another entrance, this time with unguarded gates. He turned around and headed down that direction.

When he arrived he spent the better part of half an hour -- or so he thought -- trying to prise open the gates. He never spent that much time doing any sort of manual labour before; he knew that, no matter when he woke up tomorrow (hopefully back in 2012 and not still in 1982), his back would be screaming for mercy. As he climbed back into the Princess with the plan of vandalism, he saw a figure approaching the gates from the other side -- a very familiar-looking figure, clad in white from head to toe.

The Stig.

Jeremy got back out of the car and walked back to the gates. “What the hell am I doing thirty years in the past?!” he bellowed.

Stig stood there in his traditional pose, arms folded, seemingly nonchalant. Then, surprisingly, he spoke... in a telepathic sense, that is. _The others are here, too. Somewhere. Do you remember Black Stig?_

Jeremy’s jaw dropped for a moment. Stig could talk? Even if by telepathy? Then why didn’t he communicate this way with them normally? Oh, well, it didn’t matter much now, especially given the information he just received.

“I thought he died when he went off the aircraft carrier?”

_No. The black race of Stigs are very capable of underwater survival. That said, it took him a long time to return to dry land -- about a year or two in human time -- and he began plotting on how to get his own back._

“So he, somehow, sent Hammond and May back to this year? 1982? Then how did I get back here?”

_That was my doing._

“And how do you know what happened to the other two?”

_Under this helmet I’ve got sensors that are especially attuned to know all of your exact whereabouts at any time of the day. They were programmed when I started working for you. Until just now, the only other person who knew about this was Wilman._

Jeremy found himself fascinated by all of that, now. Fascinated and a bit taken aback. After all, Stig just admitted he was like a sort of Big Brother for him and his mates. The fascination was in regards to the technology and engineering that went into all of that. However, there wasn’t time to marvel about it. Jeremy had two more important questions.

“Where are Hammond and May? And why 1982?”

_Think about the most important events in their lives that would, ultimately, lead to what the three of you do now. Their location is relative to that. As to why they’re in 1982... well, what were you doing that year?_

“I was beginning my journalism career, doing work experience for various newspapers, mostly up north.” There was a pause; then, in a burst of realization, Jeremy added, “It all comes back to me, doesn’t it? If I didn’t become a motoring journalist, I wouldn’t have gone on to do Old Top Gear --”

_Meaning you wouldn’t have helped inspire Hammond to do the same thing, and you wouldn’t have met James._

“Oh my god.” Jeremy took a breath. The fate of his beloved show was now squarely on his shoulders. “So, after I find the boys, then what?”

_You have to find them in the order they came to the show. Richard first, then James. Once found, you must drive back here and wait for me. Also, you must not, under any circumstances, search for your younger self, or for their younger selves. And do not attempt to kill or harm Black Stig in any way. I shall deal with him._

“Why can’t I look for the other me? And not running into the younger James May is going to be almost bloody impossible; they’re going to be in the same place.”

_You’ll find a way, Jeremy. As for your other question... I trust you’ve seen the second Back to the Future film?_

“Yes.” Jeremy thought about the plot for a second. “Didn’t the doctor in it mention something about a time paradox that could destroy the universe?”

_Exactly. This is serious. You can’t cock this up or try to mend it with a hammer, like you usually do. One other thing. I need to fit you with something._

“What do you mean, ‘fit me with something’? You’re not going to perform an experiment on me, are you?”

Stig laughed. _Really, Jeremy. You know my type by now. Of course I’m not going to experiment on you. I just need to attach a device behind your ear that will allow me to communicate with you on your journey, and you with me._

“Something like one of those strange Bluetooth things that executives have hermetically sealed to their ears?”

_Not exactly. It’s more like a cochlear implant, only it doesn’t require surgery, and the bit is much smaller, about half the size of an American dime._

Stig unfolded his arms, which had remained that way for the entire conversation so far, and opened his right hand to show Jeremy the device. It was, as he said, about half the size of an American dime, and the same thickness, with an outer shell of carbon fibre. Inside, however, was all sorts of complicated technology that would seamlessly connect to Jeremy and allow him to “hear” Stig from any location. It worked similarly to Star Trek badges, except it would be attached behind Jeremy’s right ear instead of to his shirt: when pressed, Jeremy could talk to Stig. If Stig attempted to ring him up, on the other hand, Jeremy would hear a _Coronation Street_ ringtone -- the same one on Stig’s mobile phone from the race across London.

Once fitted, Jeremy set off, hoping to hell he wouldn’t be rubbish at this.

* * *

The drive up the M1 was mostly boring, tedious, numbing, annoying, and Jeremy wished he was in a better car than the Princess, even though he had a radio, and even though the music on the various stations was generally better in 1982. However, he was preoccupied with trying to remember Richard’s past. While he knew that the Richard Hammond of 1982 was barely a teenager and still living in the outskirts of Birmingham, he was confused about where he started in local radio several years after that; all he remembered was that it was somewhere in the North. _Of course,_ Jeremy thought, _Hammond shouldn’t have worked at so many radio stations over the years._

The radio. The one thing he was trying to ignore. Jeremy had a brainwave and started scanning the dial. Maybe the adult Richard was on the radio now, probably reading the sheep report or whatever it was called. Jeremy didn’t care. He kept searching. Nothing so far.

Another brainwave happened. Instead of taking the M1 all the way to Leeds he opted to cut across to the A1 via the M18. He suddenly recalled Richard spent the later part of his teenage years in Ripon and went to art college near there, so must have taken his first radio job close to there as well...

 _He’s at BBC Radio York,_ Jeremy finally realized. He should have remembered it, really, given that he was subjected to that portion of the audiobook version of _On the Edge_ during his race against the sun. Then again, he spent most of that bit rolling his eyes and hoping not to get captured by a speed camera or a policeman.

Stig’s ringtone went off near his ear, catching him off-guard a bit. He finally pushed his button. “Hello, Stig!”

_Where are you?_

Jeremy scanned the horizon to look for a road sign. “Just got on to the A1, going past Doncaster.”

_There’s something you need to know._

“What’s that?”

_You’ve probably figured out where Richard started in radio by now?_

“Yes. Radio York.”

_It doesn’t exist yet. It won’t exist until July 1983._

Jeremy’s eyes widened. “Shit,” he cursed. As if more things couldn’t go wrong; he was making his way to a station that wouldn’t go live for another fifteen months!

_Think of where else he worked that exists now. A location you’ve taunted him about before._

It took a moment for Jeremy to think about this. “Cumbria!”

_Yes. First went live in September 1973. You may need to look for Radio Carlisle, though, just in case it hasn’t changed its name to Radio Cumbria yet._

“Right. Well, thanks for the tip, and I’ll talk to you later.”

 _Stay safe._ Stig hung up.

A now-grossly annoyed Jeremy had to change course and look for the junction for the M62, which would get him across the country, followed by a jaunt up the M6. However, there was one consolation: if he had to go to Lancaster next to collect the adult James May, at least it wasn’t that far away.


End file.
